The Fire In Which We Burn
by MizJoely
Summary: "Time is the school in which we learn/Time is the fire in which we burn." Molly Hooper's recurring nightmare of burning to death while an unknown man calls out to her in desperation is only the start of the strange path fate has mapped out for her. Sherlock/Molly, Sherlolly time travel AU.
1. The Man of Her Dreams?

_A/N: This will be a collaborative fic with wickedwanton once she's able to join in. It was written well before S.3, so when it is entirely AU from the end of S.2 forward and won't be canon compliant in most ways (possibly in all ways, but we'll see!). Thanks for reading; I can tell you that I have over 25,000 words written already so updates won't be quite as long in coming as they usually are._

_This story will be a time travel fic where Molly Hooper ends up in the Victorian era with the modern-day Sherlock's Victorian ancestor and lookalike. _

_Warning for nightmare description of being trapped in a fire, if anyone needs it._

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><p><strong>Prologue<strong>

_Time is the school in which we learn, _

_Time is the fire in which we burn._

("Calmly We Walk Through This April Day" by Delmore Schwartz)

The dream is always of fire, the nightmare that jolts her awake at least once every few months, beginning in puberty. She tells no one about it; her father is already ill once they start, her mother walking around with lines of strain about her eyes and a tight, false smile on her lips as she reassures twelve-year-old Molly Hooper that everything is fine, just fine. When her father passes away two years later, the nightmare intensifies, happening almost every night for six months.

_Fire, the scent of smoke, the despairing knowledge that she can't escape, that the fire will claim her, burn her, kill her hopes and dreams as well as her body. The sound of a man's voice calling to her in desperation. Her own feeble attempts to call back, stymied by the racking coughs that overwhelm her as the flames lick ever closer..._

She awakens from this nightmare with a stifled cry on her lips and tears running down her cheeks, tears of mourning rather than pain, because any dream-pain vanishes like the smoke that chokes her breath. She is always safe and sound in her own bed, even after her father's death; and she always feels the same sense of loss and betrayal, as if she's had something stolen from her.

There are other dreams as well, but she doesn't associate the two – the recurring nightmare and the vague dreams of a man she assumes isn't real – until many, many years later.

**The Man of Her Dreams? (January-June 2008)**

The first time Molly Hooper meets Sherlock Holmes in the flesh she thinks he's the man of her dreams.

Literally.

She's been dreaming her entire life of a man with grey eyes and dark curls, although his other features are vague and unformed in the way of most dream men. But when she suddenly starts seeing that same face in various reflective surfaces at work – she's recently been employed by St. Bartholomew's hospital as their most junior pathologist – she begins to wonder if her dream man is actually a manifestation of some kind of psychosis.

If he is, it isn't a psychosis that interferes with her mental abilities or day-to-day life in any way; she hears no voices whispering in her mind and the visions are simply stable images of the same man's face over and over again. At first she tries to dismiss them as being brought on by loneliness or overwork or too much caffeine: loneliness due to the fact that she very few friends; overwork attributable to the extra-long hours she works because she frankly finds it hard to say no when colleagues ask her to do 'just one more thing before you leave'; and with coffee being one of her four main food groups her caffeine consumption has been off the scale lately.

In the beginning, these visions are just as vague as her dreams; grey eyes, dark, unruly curls, pale masculine features. However, as time passes and she settles into her position at St. Bart's, as everyone calls it, the visions sharpen so that she clearly sees the features that have been so elusive in her dreaming mind.

The first time it happens she thinks there is someone actually in the room with her. She is in the ladies' locker room, fixing her hair, rebraiding it during her break so as not to have it inconveniently flop into her face during an autopsy, when the man's face appears in the mirror, as if he's standing somewhere behind her. She starts and turns, only to discover that, no, she is still alone. When she returns her bewildered gaze to the mirror, only her own face looks back at her.

She shrugs that moment off, although she can't help wistfully wondering what she'd have done if she'd turned and actually found him behind her.

"Great. I'm going mental," she announces to the room at large. "And talking to myself, that's really going to help." Shaking her head, she hurries out of the locker room. She's gasping for a cuppa; obviously dehydration is affecting her vision.

She doesn't seriously consider a supernatural or spiritual or even Doctor Who explanation until the fleeting glimpses of her dream man start haunting her in places other than the hospital; on the Tube when the windows should reflect only herself and her fellow travellers; in the window of a shop when idly studying a pair of extremely high-heeled shoes she will never have the nerve to actually wear; and, most disturbing of all, in her bathroom mirror at her flat.

That particular vision or reflection or glimpse into an alternate universe (she is heavy on the 'Doctor Who' theory at this point) is startlingly clear and detailed, not simply there and gone in a flash like all the others. She finds herself staring, mesmerised, at the strange man's profile. He appears to be talking to someone, reaching up now and again with animated gestures, his entire face alive with curiosity and enjoyment as his cupid's-bow lips silently move.

His dark curls have been disciplined and sleeked back, showing off the sideburns she's never noticed before. His hands, when they flash into view, are long and aristocratic, quite as expressive as his gorgeous mouth and those eyes that seem to peer right into her soul when he turns as if to look at her...

The ringing of her mobile shatters her concentration as she clutches her towel to her chest. When she glances down automatically to where it sits on her bathroom counter and then back up to the mirror, the image is gone, replaced by her own, somewhat frustrated and confused face.

That is in November. Two months later, the man himself strolls into the Path lab with Mike Stamford in his wake, and Molly drops the stack of microscope slides she is holding as her face flushes hot and cold and her heart begins to pound in her chest. How can he be here, in the real world? Has she actually gone insane?

She manages to keep from panicking as Mike introduces her to the stranger. "Sherlock Holmes, please meet Dr. Molly Hooper, our newest staff pathologist and already one of our best." Mike sounds as proud of her as her own father might have, had he lived long enough to see his only child graduate from university, and Molly blushes as he continues: "Graduated first in her class – "

"And two years early due to her early admission into the programme, yes, thank you, Dr. Stamford," the other man cuts in, his voice a deep baritone that sends chills shooting up and down Molly's spine and raises goosebumps on her arms, in spite of the bored tones in which he speaks.

She blushes (again) and stammers and holds out her hand, managing to get enough control over her voice to ask him how he knew she'd graduated early. "Your age," he replies, still sounding bored, then makes one of his rapid-fire assessments that she will become accustomed to hearing in the future. "Single, never married, one cat, you live within two Tube stops of the hospital and regularly walk to work unless you're running late. Won't be able to assess your skill levels till I'm able to review one of your autopsies in person, but Stamford isn't given to hyperbole so I suppose you're relatively competent. Is that microscope available or do I have to wait until you've cleaned up the mess you just made?"

She feels herself flushing again, embarrassed that he has brought up her clumsiness in so pointed a fashion, but Mike simply grins and tells her not to worry, that it's just how Sherlock is. Then he helps her clean up the broken microscope slides as she tries to apologize and Sherlock simply stands to the side, looking bored and impatient while he waits for them to get out of his way, because apparently the microscope Molly had planned to use is the only one he wants now.

She steals glances at him as he works, mentally comparing the real thing (how can there be a 'real thing,' it shouldn't be possible!) with the man from her visions and dreams. Same aristocratic profile. Same dark curls that her fingers itch to run through, although longer in reality than she's been seeing them. No sideburns, but the fingers and hands are certainly the same – long and pale and elegant and she lingers on the memory of how it felt when he shook her hand. Cool to the touch, not sweaty at all, but he is so poised and self-contained she can't imagine them feeling any other way.

The main point of difference is the eyes. She puzzles over that as she excuses herself to the two men and hurries down to the morgue to pick up some files she left and now realizes she needs in order to continue with the report she's compiling. The eyes in her visions have always been the clearest things she sees – grey and piercing, intelligence practically shining from their depths.

The real man has the same piercing intelligence, but Sherlock's eyes are much harder to pin down as to colour – blue, green, a mixture of the two? – certainly not unless she is able to spend more than a few seconds gazing into them. Which, somehow, she does not foresee happening with the cold, aloof man she's just met.

When she returns to the lab Mike is gone and Sherlock is still peering into the microscope, not appearing to have moved since she left. "So, I'm back," she says, with no motive other than to let him know he's no longer alone in the room. Or so she tells herself, when really she knows it's because she secretly hopes to hear him speak again. To see if he looks up, offers any sign of recognition.

He does neither, merely grunts and adjusts the knob and hunches his shoulders a bit, all clear body language for 'stop bothering me I'm busy'. She sighs quietly and places the files next to her own work station.

After about an hour she realizes she's uncomfortably warm and shrugs out of her lab coat. She rises and stretches, goes over to hang it on the hook near the door, then decides she needs to lose the cardigan she's wearing as well. It's her favourite, the white one dotted with cherries that her mother bought for her the year before she'd moved to Australia with her new husband, when Molly had just graduated medical school. She sheds the cardigan, revealing her pink blouse beneath it with three-quarter length sleeves and decides it should be enough to keep her comfortable.

She returns to her work station, goes through her files and frowns; one is missing. Oh, right, she put it back earlier in the day, thinking she wouldn't need it, but of course she does. So she rises to her feet and heads for the filing cabinet, ridiculously aware of the fact that she'll have to pass Sherlock in order to get there...and cursing her heart for suddenly pounding in her chest as she does so.

It takes her a few minutes to locate the appropriate file, and when she turns back she squeaks in surprise and nearly falls into the open drawer; Sherlock has left his work station so silently, approached her without saying anything, and he is right there, inches away from her, staring intently at her right forearm, just above her wrist.

"You've burned yourself," he says, lifting his eyes to meet hers.

She nods and stammers out an explanation; she'd been in a rush this morning, had tried to cook breakfast for herself only to be spattered by the bacon grease badly enough to require the application of burn cream and a gauze pad. "And then of course Toby – my cat, oh, you already know that, sorry! – he ate the bacon after it fell on the floor, greedy beast!" she finishes up with a nervous laugh.

He remains silent, the expression on his face almost a frown, almost puzzled, eyebrows slanting together. His eyes hint at the steely grey she's seen so many times but they are still very, very blue. Lovely, but not quite the same. Does it matter? She can't say, certainly not when he seems to snap out of whatever spell has temporarily overcome him and turns away without saying another word.

She considers trying to strike up another conversation after he returns to his seat at the microscope, or at least asking why he'd felt the burn on her arm was worth getting up for in the first place if he wasn't going to so much as offer his sympathies, but the tight set of his shoulders and the frown tugging at his lips warn her off. So she tries to bury herself back in her own research, and eventually becomes absorbed enough to almost forget his presence at the next table.

Almost. When he rises abruptly to his feet and heads over to the row of Bunsen burners, she startles and watches him cross the room. He is graceful and moves with a lean economy she envies even as she admires it.

When he turns on the flame, however, a sudden panic washes over her, seemingly out of nowhere; she gasps and jumps to her feet, scattering files to the floor and causing him to turn and frown at her. Heart pounding madly in her chest, she fumbles out an excuse, piles the paperwork into a haphazard mound on the table and flees the room.

Literally flees; it is all she can do not to break into a run as she makes her way to the ladies' and from there into a cubicle. She slides the lock into place and sits, fully clothed, on top of the toilet seat, burying her face in her suddenly-shaking hands.

_What the hell was that?_ she wonders as her heart finally starts to slow back to normal, as her breathing becomes less laboured and her shaking begins to ease. She has never suffered from a panic attack in her life, but she is well aware of the symptoms, and this definitely qualifies.

She waits a few minutes to make sure the symptoms aren't about to re-manifest, then leaves the cubicle, splashes some water on her face and examines her reflection. She has a moment of disconnection as she stares into her own anxious brown eyes, as if she is staring at another woman, another Molly Hooper instead of herself; the hair seems wrong, as if she's never worn it in a simple pony-tail before, as if it should be piled on top of her head in a bun. Even her name seems wrong for a split second; she's not Molly, she's Margaret...

The moment passes and she shakes her head. The reflection in the mirror is just her reflection and clearly she is more shaken by Sherlock's existence than she'd thought she was. Maybe it will be a good idea to take the rest of the afternoon as a sick day; Mike won't mind as the workload is light, and it isn't that long till the end of her shift and she really, really needs to take some time to try and figure things out.

Giving her reflection a sharp nod, she exits the ladies' and heads back to the lab.

It's empty. Sherlock is gone, the burner is no longer alight with flame, and her files have been neatly organized, all loose papers, she quickly ascertains, returned to their proper places. He is a puzzle, Sherlock Holmes, and even if she didn't have her dreams and visions to further complicate things, she knows she would be just as irresistibly drawn to him.

She puzzles over his existence all the rest of that day – after enduring Mike's gentle teasing at her reaction to first meeting him and getting permission to bugger off early – and well into the night, tossing and turning restlessly in her lonely bed. Why has fate or God or whoever sent her visions of a man she thought she could never have, then practically shoved him into her life even though it is abundantly clear to her that he has no idea who she is, and no interest in learning?

That turns out to be the crux of her dilemma throughout the next several months, as Sherlock becomes a familiar presence in her waking life and the visions gradually stop…but not the dreams. If anything, they intensify, frequently to the point where even the memory of them makes her blush. Oh, nothing terribly detailed happens even within the confines of her dreaming mind, but she certainly becomes familiar with his dream-self's lips on hers, his body pressed against hers and his arms embracing her. She feels warm and safe, wanted and loved in those dreams, feelings sadly not aroused by the real Sherlock, who is much more likely to make her feel self-conscious and stupid.

Although he is as cold and dismissive of her as he is of everyone else she sees him interacting with, she can't help noticing that she's the pathologist he seeks out most frequently to work with. It might be because she offers up the fewest objections to him, or is the most pliable, but she likes to think it's also because she shows the most interest in his lightning-fast deductions and the least revulsion to his sometimes bizarre experiments.

Time passes, Molly gradually becomes used to his abrupt and abrasive manner, and she finds herself becoming even more fascinated by the real man. Yes, he is handsome and radiates strength and energy in his tall, whip-thin frame, but it is his mind that captivates her the most. Sealing her fate, as it were. If it was simply his looks – and that marvelous, marvelous voice of his – that attracted her, that would be one thing. But to hear him speak, to listen to that brilliant mind at work...she's lost from the moment they meet even though she is certain he only sees her as a convenient pathologist, an extension of the lab rather than an actual person.

She's come around to believing the least implausible explanation for her sightings of him; that somehow, in spite of no family history of any sort of precognitive abilities, she's been granted brief glimpses into the future. She is a scientist and so unwilling to entertain any sort of truly supernatural connection between them, but she is not so rigid and narrow minded as to dismiss something outside the norm just because it doesn't fit comfortably into her world view. Yes, it is possible that other dimensions or realities exist, but without other evidence to show that either she's been pulled into an alternate world or that Sherlock has stepped into this reality from her dreams, she's content to go with the simplest explanation. Occam's Razor.

If she has somehow been gifted with what her Irish Nana would no doubt call 'The Sight,' it will also explain why Sherlock shows no recognition of her; she was the one doing all the seeing, as if viewing him through a one-way mirror. It still doesn't explain the differences between vision and reality – most notably the eye colour – but it makes the most sense of any explanation she can come up with. But his lack of knowledge of her means that she has to be the one to try and find a way to get him to look at her in a different way. During these first few months, however, she is unable to put together a coherent sentence in his presence unless she is deep in her work, speaking her autopsy findings into the microphone or defending her findings in the path lab.

Things finally change between them late in the summer, but it isn't a good change.


	2. Kill The Buzzing Of My Brain

_A/N: Warning for mentions of drug use and Sherlock being a total ass._

__This story will be a time travel fic where Molly Hooper ends up in the Victorian era with the modern-day Sherlock's Victorian ancestor and lookalike.__

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><p><strong>Kill The Buzzing Of My Brain (Summer 2008)<strong>

Molly is introduced to DI Greg Lestrade, Sherlock's main contact at the Met, the man he does the most consulting for. When, one day, Sherlock rushes out of the morgue on some mysterious errand or other, his eyes wild and hair nearly standing on end from him raking his fingers through it, the detective inspector turns to her and, out of the blue, declares: "I think I can trust you to be discreet about this, yeah, Dr. Hooper?"

"Molly," she says automatically, her eyes still on the doors to the morgue as she tries to puzzle out Sherlock's unusually manic exit. Something has been off about him for some time now, she is just beginning to realize, only there is always something off about Sherlock in general so she hasn't actually paid very close attention to the odd shifts in his behaviour since the beginning of summer. "Be discreet about what, Detective Inspector?" she asks, making a deliberate effort to keep her mind on the conversation at hand and not her vague worries about a man who still seems to barely tolerate her in spite of her efforts to get to know him better...and to give him the opportunity to get to know her better as well.

An opportunity he has yet to take advantage of. And after DI Lestrade confides his suspicions to her, she wonders if the reason fate or whoever has given her her glimpses into the future is because she isn't meant to connect to Sherlock romantically, as she's always hoped, but in more of a caretaking capacity.

"I think he's on something."

"Oh, he's onto something about the case? That's great, that's fan..." Molly falls silent as she realizes she has misheard what Lestrade was saying, sees the gravity in his eyes as he corrects her.

She stares at him, disconcerted and suddenly at a loss for words. Sherlock, taking drugs? Risking that beautiful, brilliant mind of his for something so ridiculously dangerous? She shakes her head in denial, but Lestrade must read something in her expression that speaks to his own suspicions, because he presses her on it. "You think so, too."

"N-no, he wouldn't...he would never do something that might affect his mind!" she blurts out, but as soon as she says it she knows she's wrong – and that DI Lestrade is right.

"Look, Dr. Hoop – Molly," he corrects himself. "I've known Sherlock for a couple of years now, and one thing I can tell you is that the only reason he would take anything would be _because_ of his mind. Not to hurt it, per se, but to try and shut it down once in a while. Only lately, it seems he's gone from occasional user to, well, addict, not to put too fine a point on it. Do you know why I'm sharing this with you?"

She blinks and stares at him. "Because you know I won't say anything to anyone?" she hazards, although how a man she's just met might understand how trustworthy she is is beyond her. Well, if he were Sherlock Holmes he might be able to ascertain that fact about her personality, but she suspects there aren't very many people in the world whose minds function at the same level as Sherlock's...and no matter how intelligent, no matter how likeable, she doubts DI Lestrade is at that same level of brilliance.

He starts to shake his head, then pauses and nods instead. "That's part of it, yeah. But the reason I know you won't tell anyone something said to you in confidence," he adds, as if he has read her mind, "is because Sherlock trusts you."

She stares at him. "Really? That's...nice." Nice and completely unexpected. It is a truth that Sherlock himself will not share with her for another two years and under vastly different circumstances, although it will happen in this very building.

Lestrade goes on, "The thing is, I've been willing to turn a blind eye when it was only now and again, but it's been more and more frequently and frankly, if he doesn't straighten up I'm not going to be able to use him as a consultant anymore."

Molly gasps and immediately puts her hand over her mouth, eyes wide as she considers the implications of what Lestrade has just said. She and Sherlock have shared only a handful of actual conversations since she first met him in January, but one thing she does know about him is how important the work is to him. If he were no longer allowed to consult on Scotland Yard cases, if all he had to occupy his ferocious intellect were the occasional private cases he's mentioned – dismissively and with a great deal of contempt for the most part – she has absolutely no idea how he would react, or what it would do to him.

She blurts out her feelings to Lestrade, who nods agreement with her as she trails off. "Yeah, I know. Thing is, if I say something to him he'll just deny it, find some way to talk rings around me and ignore whatever I have to say on the subject. What the hell do I know, I'm just a copper, right?" His lips twist in a wry smile, and Molly understands that he is more like her than she would have thought; he tries not to take Sherlock's sometimes hurtful words personally, understanding that it is simply who the man is. That his mind works on a completely different level to theirs, and that he is, quite frankly, about as socially inept as a toddler unless he makes a special effort not to be. Which he rarely does.

"Honestly, Inspector Lestrade, I don't think he'll listen to me any better than you," Molly admits with a sad smile of her own. "You may be just a copper, but most of the time I don't think he even realizes I'm a human being."

Lestrade shakes his head firmly. "Oh, he knows you're a human being, Molly – and call me Greg, yeah? At least when it's just us talking about Sherlock behind his back," he adds with a self-deprecating grin. "He doesn't have a lot of people in his life he can trust – if you asked, he'd probably tell you he doesn't have friends at all, but I'm hoping one day he'll discover that not only are the rest of us human beings, but he is, too. And I'm not asking you to confront him, just...keep an eye on him, if you don't mind? I know he works with you more than the other pathologists, and I know you get on with him about as well as anyone can. If he ever seems to...I dunno, cross a line, or need help, just let me know." He presses his card into her hands and she nods and accepts it, slipping it into her trouser pocket so she doesn't accidentally leave it behind at the end of her shift.

When Sherlock returns she is busy putting the body he and Lestrade had come to examine back into its refrigerated storage compartment, and Lestrade is on his mobile. However, as soon as Molly turns to face Sherlock, her bright smile falters. Sherlock's eyes are narrowed, and he is darting his glance back and forth between the two of them, the very picture of suspicion. She tries to ignore the feeling that she's somehow betrayed him by listening to what Greg had to say and agreeing with it, but is certain that the guilt she is feeling is as plain to Sherlock as if she had the conversation inked on her forehead.

When the detective inspector asks Sherlock if he's ready to go, he waves the other man off, spouts out his deductions about the case – which prove to be spot on, Molly later learns – and tells Lestrade he has some unfinished business to see to at the hospital. Lestrade hesitates, gives Molly a sympathetic look, then heads through the doors.

Leaving the two of them, Molly and Sherlock, alone.

Molly starts to say something, but Sherlock cuts her off with an even darker frown. "I don't know what Lestrade said to you, but I can _guess_," he says with heavy sarcasm. The word isn't one he uses in reference to himself, ever. Another sign he isn't quite himself, or merely his obvious temper leading to imprecision in language he usually avoids? "He's worried about me, and he wants you to be worried about me as well, to keep an eye on me and go tattling off to him if you see any signs of me losing control or going over the edge, is that it?"

He is trying to intimidate her, and doing a damned good job of it, too, but Molly somehow finds the internal fortitude to stand up to him. She straightens her shoulders, looks him squarely in the eye and says: "Yes. That's exactly it."

He looks taken aback, as if he wasn't expecting her to admit it, and she uses his momentary hesitation to plunge ahead with what she now realizes she wants – no, _has_ – to say to him. "I'm worried, too, Sherlock. You haven't been...haven't been yourself lately. And no, I don't know you well enough to say that, but I'm saying it anyway. Because I care."

Wrong thing to say, she realizes as soon as the word leaves her mouth. He draws back, lip curled in disdain and unleashes on her. "Oh, you _care_, how _nice_, how _lovely_," he says, voice dripping venom. "You're worried about me. You've known me less than ten months, Dr. Hooper, and I would appreciate it if you would kindly keep your _feelings_ to yourself in future. I can take care of myself, and you and Lestrade need to stay out of my personal business as ours is a strictly professional relationship – if you can call our occasional interactions even that much. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a case to solve."

Then he turns and stalks out of the morgue, leaving Molly trembling and on the verge of tears – not so much because of his hurtful words, but because she realizes he really is in trouble, and absolutely unwilling to accept any kind of help, from her or anyone else. Sherlock Holmes, she realizes with an ache in her heart, will follow his current path until he is good and ready to see it for the trap it is...or until it kills him.


	3. Swap Our Places

_A/N: Thanks for all the lovely reviews so far, glad you're enjoying this odd little tale! This continues on from what happened last time, but there will be all sorts of time jumps after this until Molly actually makes her *real* time jump to the past._

_And because I have the memory of a gnat, I completely forgot to give a shout out to my awesome beta moonmama, who looked over these chapters for me. Any mistakes left are mine._

**Warnings for the aftereffects of drug use.**

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><p><strong>Swap Our Places (October 2008)<strong>

She is in her flat, curled up on the sofa with her cat Toby purring in her lap, lost in a Regency romance when she hears the sound of someone at her door. She drops the book and rises to her feet, dumping her protesting cat onto the floor as she gropes for the cricket bat she keeps on hand at all times. Ever since someone broke into Mrs. Witherspoon's flat last winter she's been taking precautions. Tonight is the first time she hasn't felt as if she's being silly and overreactive.

No one should be in the hall; the main entrance has a row of buzzers for visitors to press if they need entry, and she most emphatically did not hear the sound of either the buzzer or someone announcing their presence. She has never been _that_ lost in even the most engrossing of novels.

There is no point in pretending there's no one home, since whoever's on the other side of her door has certainly heard her fumbling around, trying to shush Toby and dropping her mobile on the floor in the process. "Who is it?" she calls out, one finger on the autodial for 999, the other hand wrapped tightly around the handle of the cricket bat. It's probably terrible form, but doesn't really care at the moment.

There is no answer at first, just the sound of ragged breathing as she presses her ear against the door. Then, muffled by the barrier between them but still instantly recognizable to her, she hears, "Molly, it's me. I think I'm…in trouble."

She drops the cricket bat and (for the second time) her mobile, unlocking and opening the door with suddenly shaking hands. Even if Sherlock hadn't said the word 'trouble' she would have known something was wrong; he has never come to see her at her flat before. She had no idea he even knew where she lives.

The bad feeling his words have given her grows as she takes in the sight of him: impeccably dressed as always, still wearing the Belstaff over a posh black suit and aubergine dress shirt, but the other details are wrong. His hair is an unruly tangle, his face paler than normal, his breathing ragged, his eyes bloodshot and sunken as he weaves unsteadily on his feet…and then suddenly he is collapsing slowly into her arms, eyes fluttering shut – but not before she sees the pinholes his pupils have become. Then the two of them are on the floor, his weight too much for her to bear; she didn't have time to brace herself but at least she managed to break his fall somewhat before they slide to the floor in a tangled heap.

The words burst out of her before she can stop them. "Goddamn it, Sherlock! Do you have to be so bloody stupid?" She has never spoken so harshly to him before – rarely speaks this harshly to _anyone_ – but he has frightened her so badly that now her entire body is shaking; she's terrified that he has come to her too late for her to help him.

His eyes slowly reopen, although at first she is too busy pushing herself up under his shoulder, trying to get him off the floor, to notice. When she sees his eyelids flickering, his gaze wandering all over her face, she feels a keen sense of relief; she may be vague on signs of overdose, even with the research she's done after that frightening conversation with DI Lestrade back in August, but she knows that any signs of consciousness are good.

She misses the sudden flash of surprise in his gaze as she continues her attempts to disentangle their bodies, or the way those blue-green orbs momentarily darken to a steely grey. If she had seen, she would have recognized the eyes from her dreams and visions. But she doesn't; the moment passes, and although she is unaware of the fact, she is no longer supporting her own Sherlock Holmes, but one born in an earlier century, time conspiring to swap two souls into one another's bodies as each is reeling from unintended overdose.

She tugs at his sleeve as she tries to balance his tall, lanky form against her own, much shorter stature – who knew such a skinny bit of nothing would be so heavy? Some part of her files this fact away, the weight of him against her body, and she knows it will visit her in her dreams later – both the good ones and the nightmares his presence here in such condition is bound to bring. She shudders at the thought of it triggering her recurring nightmare of burning to death in a fire, but focuses on the here and now; Sherlock is her priority, and she will just have to deal with whatever consequences may occur later.

With a grunt that is far from ladylike she manages to pull him upright to a sitting position, both hands tightly wrapped in the lapels of his coat. Tears are flowing from her eyes, but she has no energy to spare for them; even if she did, if she tried to wipe them away, it's likely that she and Sherlock would simply end up tumbled back on the floor. So she lets them flow, another consequence to temporarily ignore.

Sherlock seems to focus on her again, his eyes wandering from her face down to her chest, then widening a bit as he takes in her black t-shirt with its red Rolling Stones logo, before moving down to her jeans and then for some reason to her hands. He is resting against the door frame, slumped but semi-upright, and she needs to get a closer look at his eyes so she grabs him by the jaw and forces his head back to try and regain his full attention – or as much of it as he's capable of giving her, considering his current condition.

"How much did you take?" She follows the bobbing motion of his head on his neck. Her hair falls into her face as she moves closer, peering into his eyes, but she ignores it as she repeats herself, speaking slowly and clearly and with a great deal more force than she might have if she weren't suddenly furious with him. "How. Much. Did. You. _Take_?"

Her breath catches as he meets her gaze and, inexplicably, smiles at her. Not one of his false, please-do-something-for-me-Molly smiles, but a genuine smile. Or as genuine as can be managed considering the circumstances. He appears to actually be _seeing_ her, and the thought that he has never looked at her so closely as he is now passes through her mind before she shakes it off. Now is not the time for romantic wishful thinking; something needs to be done to help snap him out of this, and it needs to be done _now_.

Before she can put thought into action, however, he breathes out two words that nearly stop her heart: "So beautiful."

The words are out of her mouth before she can stop them: "Oh, shit!" She drops her head to her chest, trying to regain control of her suddenly ragged breath, to slow her racing heart. Hasn't she just chided herself for thinking like a silly, love-struck girl instead of a medical professional?

With that thought in mind, knowing that it is the drugs talking and nothing Sherlock would ever say to her if he was in his right mind, she shifts emotional gears into irritation. "You're supposed to be smarter than this!"

She reaches out, tucking her head against his shoulder and trying to force him to his knees, nearly falling backward in the process. He makes a small noise – pain? She spares a quick glance and sees his nose quivering. Oh, fantastic; he probably hates her body wash or shampoo or something and she's no doubt in for a sudden dissertation on how her taste in personal hygiene items is as atrocious as her taste in clothing.

Sherlock's hand shoots out as if to steady her, landing on her waist, then pulling back just as abruptly, a look of alarm in his eyes. What, he can't put his hand on her even though she's essentially been pressed up against him this whole time? She shrugs it off as Sherlock's aversion to being touched – she's noticed this about him, even if he's not quite to the level of OCD-break-out-the-sanitary-wipes-after-shaking-hands. His current state of mind certainly can't be helping.

She manages to roll up onto her feet, hauling him up with her. For a moment it seems as though he is trying to help, but judging by the way he weaves a bit, he is still too unsteady to be of use. She raises his arm and pulls her chest tight to his body, stumbles to her feet and hauls him with her. Then she is near-dragging him from the room, half-sobbing as she grinds out: "You have to stop doing this, you idiot! You aren't the only one you hurt, you know!" Oh, she hadn't meant to give her feelings away like that, but she comforts herself with the knowledge that he is unlikely to remember much once he recovers. _If_ he recovers...no, she will not allow herself to think that way.

"Dear lady, I am sure that…"

"Dear lady?" she repeats, incredulous. "Where the hell did you get that from?" she demands as she props him in the bathroom doorway. Can she leave him there while she runs back to close the door to the flat? Doubtful. His eyes...no, she needs to get his attention before he slips back into unconsciousness again... "Molly, Doctor Hooper; I'll even tolerate Miss Hooper when you're really being a prat," she says in her best lecturing voice, "but I'm not your 'dear lady!' Got it?"

He opens his mouth as if to answer her, then suddenly begins sliding down to the floor. Nope, definitely no time to do anything but grab him again. "Oh, no you don't!" She manages to catch him before his knees hit the floor and continues pulling him into the bathroom, another surge of adrenaline reviving her flagging strength.

She gets him over to the bathtub; the edge collides with his knees as he turns and falls into it. Just in time she slips her hand between his head and the tiled wall, fingers automatically curling into his hair. Apparently even such dire straits as Sherlock currently faces aren't enough to keep her body from appreciating the silky smoothness of the curls between her fingers.

_Looks like we _both_ need a cold shower,_ she thinks, biting her lip to hold back the half-hysterical laugh she feels building at the absurdity of her body reacting so inappropriately to his nearness. She reaches out and turns on the cold water, hoping to shock him into awareness – his eyes have started to close again, his breathing is harsh and ragged – and herself into sanity. She needs to find a way to keep herself from reacting so strongly to him...and doubts she ever will.

When she looks down at him, he is looking right back at her, the sharpness of his gaze much closer to what she is used to. She knows she must look a mess, with her t-shirt soaking wet and hair plastered to her skin, but she can't bring herself to care. Once again the words spill out of her without any real thought behind them. "Don't you ever do this to me again, Sherlock, I mean it. I'll put up with a lot, but not this. You want to kill me? Make me have to find you like this again. I don't ever ask much, but I deserve better than this."

He blinks water from his eyes as they flicker downward for just a split second – is he checking her out, noticing the way her wet t-shirt clings to her chest? – then back up to meet her concerned gaze. The tears have stopped and the anger is washing out of her as he shows every sign of coming out of the drug-induced haze he's inflicted on himself.

She is stunned by his next words, carried on a deeply drawn breath, as if he is remembering how to breathe whilst simultaneously talking. And his eyes; she sees an unexpected warmth in them that no amount of cold water will ever be able to freeze out of her heart. "I'm sorry…Molly," he says, with an odd pause before speaking her name. Then he does the unthinkable; he reaches up and touches her cheek with one hand and adds, "I didn't mean to hurt you."

She knows it's wrong, so very, very wrong, but when he moves his head, tilting it up toward hers, she gives into the mad impulse that overtakes her and presses her lips to his. She is shocked when he returns the kiss, loses track of everything except the feel of their mouths pressed together. She reaches out to touch his face, to once again wind her fingers in his dark curls, when his head falls back on his neck and, in spite of her best efforts, passes out.

**oOo**

Sherlock awakens the next morning in a strange bed. Certainly not his own Montague Street flat; he has never once, even in the thrall of the worst boredom, ever even thought about decorating with the wretched, overly cheerful floral-and-cats motif he is surrounded by now. Curtains, bedclothes – sheets and pillowcases and duvet – even the fabric on the room's single chair is the same pattern. Ugh. Even if he weren't already headachy and nauseous as he continued the long, slow comedown from his high, this room would be enough to bring such symptoms on.

Where the hell is he? A woman's room, no difficult deduction there, but what woman? What the hell happened to him last night? Where is he?

The sound of the bedroom door opening catches his attention; he peers blearily over to see...oh. Molly Hooper, the pathologist from St. Bart's. How has he landed in her bedroom? Yes, he discovered her address one day while perusing some private paperwork she'd carelessly left open on her desk – something boring to do with National Health, he vaguely recalls – and memorized it in case it ever turned out to be useful, but it's a far cry from learning an address and finding oneself waking up there.

"Sherlock?" Molly sounds hesitant, and he almost snaps out a comment about how yes, it's Sherlock, who else would it be, but it hardly seems worth the effort. Instead he just looks at her, waiting for her to say whatever it is she's come to say. "Are you...how do...did you sleep all right?"

She isn't stuttering, not quite, but her hesitant pauses are nearly as annoying. "Clearly I slept," he snaps out. "The question is, why did I sleep _here_?"

She blinks at him, her brown eyes (_amber_, his mind supplies; he ignores it, her eyes are _brown_, dammit) enormous and sad and although something inside him longs to let her comfort him as she clearly wants to, panic at the thought of such closeness wins out and all he does is clench his jaws and grind out: "Well, Molly? Surely I didn't just appear in your bed, the answer to all your dreams..."

He's gone too far that time, and it doesn't take the blaze of hurt or the flush of red on Molly's cheeks for him to realize it. However, he is Sherlock Holmes and he doesn't do apologies or backpedaling, so all he does is wait for the inevitable explosion.

It isn't long in coming; Molly finds her voice almost immediately, and although it's shaking she doesn't stutter, not once, as she lays into him. "No, Sherlock, you didn't just 'appear' in my bed. But you _did_ just appear on my doorstep and you _did_ collapse as soon as I opened the door, but you don't remember any of that, do you?" Her voice rises in pitch and it's like broken glass to his fractured nerves but clearly she's in no mood to be interrupted and he is, interestingly enough, in no mood to interrupt her. Shame, perhaps? He feels it so seldom he can't be sure, but he listens as she continues: "No, of course you don't because you were too bloody high to remember anything that happened last night! And then you have the nerve to act like _I'm_ the one in the wrong, like it's my fault for caring whether you live or die?" She takes a single step forward, and he finds himself shifting uncomfortably as she glares at him, eyes alight with a fire he's never seen there before. "No, Sherlock bloody Holmes, you don't get to do that, get all offensive and attack me when all I've done is try to help you!"

She falls silent, chest heaving, fists balled at her sides, and he understands that she is giving him time to respond to her words. To defend himself, to say something, possibly even apologize or tell her she's right.

Instead he groans and covers his eyes with the back of his arm as he collapses back on the pillows. "Yes, fine, Molly, you've been a dear lady to help me in my hour of need. Now call me a cab so I can return home and leave you and your monstrosity of a bedroom in peace."

"No."

He opens his eyes and sits back up so quickly his head spins, but he fixes his glare on Molly, trying to intimidate her into doing as he asked. When he opens his mouth to say something cutting, something that will drive her into doing what he wants simply to get rid of him, she cuts him off, arms folded across her chest, matching him glare for glare. "You need help, Sherlock," she bites out. "_Real_ help, not just me dumping you in the shower and force-feeding you biscuits at three in the morning to get your blood sugar back up. You've needed help for a, for a long time now, and if you don't get it, I'll...I'll do something drastic."

The stutter has returned, but the sudden steel-rod spine she is exhibiting is still very unsettling – not to mention intriguing. Nevertheless, he narrows his eyes at her and asks in his most dangerous growl: "Such as?"

Her lips compress into a thin line as she says: "I'll tell DI Lestrade."

That shuts him up for a full thirty seconds as he continues to stare at her, gauging her determination. What he sees unsettles him even more; Molly Hooper is not bluffing. If he doesn't get help – and not just pretend to do so, lie to her and continue on as he has been – then she will cut off the source of the work, the one thing that keeps his ever-buzzing mind focused and strong instead of darting off into a thousand, a million different directions at once the way it has his entire life.

The drugs have helped, settled his mind, helped him sleep, relax, push away the boredom, but he has known all along that they are at best a temporary fix...and one that he has clearly overused. He still has no memory of arriving at Molly's flat, let alone anything that happened once he arrived, although there is a vague memory or dream-fragment, a sense of dislocation he remembers feeling at some point. Worse, he has no clear memory of what exactly he'd taken to get him to such a state in the first place. The last twenty-four hours are almost a complete blank, and although he was trying to still his thoughts and find some short-term peace inside his own mind, that wasn't exactly the level of forgetfulness he'd been aiming for.

He knows he needs help; perhaps that's why his drug-affected brain subconsciously directed him here, to Molly Hooper's flat. She is always eager to help him, no matter how cutting or dismissive he is to her. Even last summer, the day Lestrade opened his big fat mouth and blabbed to her...even then she demonstrated her willingness to help him, rather than judging or condemning him.

Yes, he decides as he reluctantly agrees that perhaps he should seek help for his (temporary) addiction, it is because he subconsciously knows that Molly will help him that he came here. There is no other reason; certainly not sentiment. Just because she cares for him (ridiculous of her to do so; why does she, when clearly he is not and never will be capable of deserving her affections, let alone attempting to return them?) doesn't mean anything. He is using her as he always does, because she is convenient, and there is _nothing_ more to it than that.

In the end he sends a text to Mycroft, loath though he is to ask his elder brother for help. Still, it's better than dealing with Lestrade, better than the possibility of having the work taken away from him. Mycroft will judge and moralize, but in the end he will do as Sherlock demands and find someplace discreet and far from London in which to overcome this (temporary) setback.

The car arrives within minutes of Mycroft's response, which is a simple 'Yes' via message, which means his assistant – what is that woman's name, he never can remember – is the one sending it. Which also means, thankfully, that she will be the one accompanying him to his destination, not his brother.

He leaves the flat without bothering to say good-bye, feeling Molly's eyes on him the entire time. He has hurt her, he understands that, but there is nothing he can do about it. He has spent his entire life hurting people, allowing no one close enough to hurt him in return, and doesn't know how to change.

Doesn't even know if he _can_ change.

He enters the car and sits next to his brother's PA, who is tapping away on her Blackberry as usual. As far as he's concerned he may as well be alone in the car, and he defiantly tells himself that's fine.

Alone protects him. Alone keeps him safe.


	4. A New Man In Her Life

_A/N: This story time jumps quite a bit, in case you haven't already noticed, and that's quite deliberate. This is set during TGG and introduces Jim Moriarty into the mix. There will be a gap before the next chapter is posted because I have to fix some things with wickedwanton, but I hope it'll be worth the wait. Thanks to moonmama for her spectacular betaing efforts, and thanks to all my readers and followers and reviewers!_

* * *

><p><strong>A New Man In Her Life (March 2010)<strong>

It is a fairly slow day and Molly is seeking something to keep her from going completely mad from boredom. Sherlock is not around to spread his usual chaos; there are no autopsies scheduled, and she's even, for once, caught up on the piles of paperwork the combination of death and bureaucracy inevitably generates.

In desperation she decides to inventory the storage cupboard down the hall, the one that sees the least use but is close enough that if she is needed in the lab no one will have to search for her very long.

She opens the door, then gives a huff of annoyance as she flicks the light switch back and forth; the bulb's gone again, third time this month. When will the maintenance crew finally replace the faulty switch and be done with it? She gropes for the penlight she's tucked away on the back of the shelf nearest the door for just such an emergency, then gives a squeal as someone comes up behind her and grabs her round the waist.

Panic rises but is quickly stifled when she hears Jim's low chuckle in her ear. "Surprise, luv!"

He gives her a quick peck on the cheek as she relaxes and cranes her head around to give him a frown of mock-annoyance. "Prat!"

They'd met when he came to do software upgrades on the Pathology Department's computers last month, discovered a mutual love of cats and coffee and the American television series 'Glee' and developed a friendship that has since altered into something more.

Something she has been starved for: affection, attention, and, with any luck, even physical intimacy. If, she grumbles to herself, Sherlock lets it happen, of course. Because he is the most effective cockblocker she's ever met, without ever seeming to do it on purpose.

Every time she starts to date someone, Sherlock finds some way to destroy the relationship. If he were a different man Molly would accuse him of deliberately sabotaging her, but she's honest enough with herself to admit the truth: he has been right about the men she tried to date since meeting him. Every. Single. Time. The married one. The serial cheater. The one with the death fetish who only wanted to convince her to get naked on one of the cadaver slabs and let him pretend he was defiling a corpse.

Jim is different, she knows he is. He's sweet and a bit goofy and good at his job and doesn't mind her career path but isn't weirdly fixated on it, either. They have gone on three dates; tonight when they meet for drinks at the Fox will be their fourth. He has already shyly referred to her as his girlfriend and she is happier than she has been in a long time.

Or so she tells herself. Constantly. Every time she wakes up from a dream of Sherlock – still with those intense grey eyes which for some unknown reason have never morphed into the blue-green of the real man – she reminds herself that he has never looked at her as more than a friend, if that much, and that, sadly, he likely never will.

She had hopes after his overdose two years previous, even though he'd been so awful to her when he woke up in her flat the next morning. She can hardly fault him for that; no one could wake up under such circumstances and be all smiles and rainbows. The important part is that he actually listened to her and got help, got himself cleaned up and has remained drug-free ever since. She retains a quiet pride in herself for standing up to him the one time it truly mattered, even if afterwards she reverted back to scurrying around to do his bidding at every turn – once he forgave her enough to allow her to assist him again, that is.

She didn't see him for weeks, presumably while he was in rehab, didn't even know he'd returned till one of her colleagues made some disparaging remark about 'that Holmes prick' being back from wherever he'd disappeared to. But when she tried to speak to him he'd given her an icy stare and walked away from her, which meant he was still angry at her for trying to help – no, more than that, for daring to care about him.

That had gone on for months, until spring of 2009. She'd given up on him ever wanting to work with her again when one morning, half-way through her early shift, he'd burst into the lab with DI Lestrade on his heels, demanding her assistance with a body as if he hadn't just subjected her to the silent treatment for six months.

Things gradually drifted back to the way they had been before his overdose, with him doing experiments and assisting DI Lestrade – and sometimes other officers, although none of them seem as comfortable with the eccentric genius, as she has taken to calling him, as Greg. Just as none of her work colleagues are able to stand him for more than minutes at a time. She's been accused of everything from low self-esteem to outright masochism when she tries to explain why she puts up with so much crap from him.

If it wasn't for the visions she'd had before meeting him (and the dreams that have never stopped), she might agree with those accusations. If it wasn't for the fact that she thinks she sees something in him that others don't – whether because of those dreams and visions or simply because she spends a great deal of time observing him and thinking about him – she might have given up on him long ago.

But he's changed recently; he isn't quite as harsh or dismissive as he used to be. She thinks it's because he's actually made a friend, someone Mike Stamford introduced him to, apparently, the same day she'd finally worked up the courage to ask Sherlock to have a coffee with her. Which request he'd entirely misunderstood as her asking him if he wanted her to bring him coffee – or else pretended to misunderstand. She pushes back that particular remembered hurt and concentrates on what she remembers about John Watson. She's seen him about, knows he's a doctor and seems to be able to put up with Sherlock enough to agree to be his flatmate. He writes a blog, which Molly follows faithfully, although she's a bit put out with him right now for writing something so unflattering about Sherlock in it – really, what difference does it make if the world revolves around the sun or vice versa?

Jim interrupts her rambling thoughts by pushing her deeper into the storage cupboard and tugging the door shut behind them before turning her in his arms and kissing her. "Jim!" she gasps when the kiss ends, scandalized and a bit excited – in a nervous, what-if-we-get-caught sort of way – by his boldness.

It's pitch black in the tight confines of the storage cupboard, but he backs her into the shelves holding folded linens without bumping her into anything along the way, pressing his body against hers and capturing her lips for a deeper, hungrier kiss.

He is a damn good kisser, and it's been so long since she's had any sort of physical release – since anyone's touched her besides herself – that she gives into the mad impulse that seems to have overtaken her and allows him to snog her silly. It isn't until his hands start wandering beneath her lab coat that she pulls away and breathlessly asks him to stop. "Jim, wait, not here, we can't!"

At first it's as if he doesn't hear her; his lips have moved to her throat and his hands have tugged her blouse out of the top of her trousers. She squeaks out another protest as his fingertips skim across her bare flesh before pulling back. His breath is a bit harsh, but then, so is hers. For just a second she feels something like fear flash over her – what if he doesn't stop, what if he's another mistake after all – but then he speaks and her concerns melt away. "Sorry, luv, guess I got a bit carried away there," he says in that lovely Irish lilt of his. Yes, his voice isn't a deep baritone; his hair is shorter and much straighter, and his eyes are darker, he's not as tall...and why, exactly, is she still mentally comparing this lovely man to the one who will never even try to kiss her, let alone take further liberties?

Liberties she might not have expected from Jim at this stage of their relationship, but she pushes down any doubts the way she always does, certain that they stem solely from her worries that Sherlock will find some way to ruin this for her, too. She ignores his track record as well; surely he's due to be wrong about one of her attempts at a relationship sometime – why not now?

"It's all right," she reassures Jim, still feeling a bit uneasy in the dark, attributing it solely to the fact that she can't see anything but the thin line of light beneath the door. "I do have to get back to work, though," she reminds him, rubbing his arm lightly to let him know she's not angry at him.

"Yeah, work, I know, me too," he agrees, but he still isn't moving and Molly has a sense there is something else he wants to say, even without seeing the expression on his face. "Thing is, Molls, there was something I wanted to ask, if you don't mind..."

His voice trails off and she offers him an encouraging "Yes?"

"That detective chap you're always going on about, Sherlock Holmes? Is he coming in today?"

"I don't...I'm not 'always' going on about him," she protests as her stomach tightens; she'd thought she'd been managing her infatuation with Sherlock better than that. "Am I?"

"No, course not, luv, it's just an expression," he hastens to reassure her, easing the knot a bit. He squeezes her arm and she feels his lips brush against her cheek in apology. "I just was wondering...d'you think I could meet him? If he isn't busy, of course. You make him sound so fascinating!"

"He's a prat!" she blurts out, and Jim laughs. She's glad he can't see how red her cheeks must be at the moment.

"Oh, Molls, don't worry, there's nothing he can say or do to chase me off!" he says, answering her unspoken fears. Did she tell him about those others already? She can't remember specifically doing so but they've had any number of lengthy conversations over the past month and she supposes she could have let something slip without thinking. Sometimes she lets her mouth run ahead of her brain when she's with a chap she fancies and her nerves have gotten the best of her. Then he leans closer and she feels the word as much as hears it breathed against her ear. "Please?"

"If he comes in I'll let you know," she finds herself telling him, although she had no intention of doing so when she opened her mouth. How has this happened? But when she tries to take the words back Jim laughs and cajoles her and presses soft kisses to her lips and she finds herself weakening.

**oOo**

Two hours later Molly Hooper is as furious as she's ever been in her life, although she isn't sure at whom – Sherlock, for throwing out such a devastating deduction on Jim, or Jim himself for just popping up when she specifically asked him not to come down, since Sherlock was in one of his moods and she would rather not have introduced them until things settled a bit.

When Jim leaves she lets Sherlock have it, assuring him that he's wrong, that she and Jim are together. Then he shows her the note Jim has slipped him – it's Jim's mobile number, she recognizes his handwriting and the number, it's programmed into her own mobile and she all but runs from the lab, leaving Sherlock and John Watson (whom she is less angry at now, to the point where she regrets being so petty as to pretend to forget his name when she'd introduced Jim to him) to do whatever the hell it is they're here to do.

_He can't be gay. He just can't,_ she tells herself as she makes her rapid way to her office. If he was, surely he wouldn't have been so, so _forward_ with her in the supply closet earlier? Wouldn't she have been able to tell, wouldn't something have felt off – mechanical, rehearsed, forced...?

With a stifled sob she realizes that yes, it _had_ felt off. Mechanical. Rehearsed.

Forced.

She just makes it to her office, shuts the door, pulls the shade and turns the lock before collapsing on the floor, crying her eyes out. Why does it always have to be this way? Why can't she just find a man to love, one who will love her back and not just use her? Because of _course_ that was what Jim was doing; of _course_ all he wanted was for her to introduce him to Sherlock so he could try and ask him out. Right under her bloody, stupid nose!

"Molly Hooper, you are the world's biggest fool," she says aloud, wiping her nose on the back of her hand and not even caring how pathetic she must look. Not that anyone can see her – not that anyone who _could_ see her would care.

With shaking hands she pulls her mobile out of her pocket and sends Jim a text, then waits to see if he will answer.

_Why did you slip Sherlock your mobile number when we were in the lab?_

_Let it be for a case he's too shy to come out and ask about,_ she prays while she waits for an answering text – or a reassuring phone call, telling her it's all a misunderstanding...

Less than a minute later she receives a reply.

Not the one she'd been praying for.

_Oh. He told you about that. I hope you don't take it the wrong way; you know I love you right? I just want to screw him. This is the 21__st__ century after all; never took you for a Victorian miss._

She stares incredulously at the lines of text, shakes her head, closes her eyes tightly, then opens them again, hoping that she's misread the message. But no, there it is in black and white: confirmation of Sherlock's assessment of her latest misfire of a relationship.

Jim is gay. Bisexual. Whatever. He has just admitted to wanting to have sex with Sherlock.

How can someone say they love you and in the next breath admit to wanting to have sex with someone else?

_Jim, I don't think we want the same thing from this relationship. We should talk._

Her thumb hovers over the mobile for a long moment before she sends the message.

His response is instant – and exactly what she was afraid it would be.

_Sorry, Molls, I guess it just wasn't meant to be. I should have known you'd break up with me over this, but it was worth a shot. Oh well, it's been fun. Toodles._

Molly shakes her head, closes her eyes, opens them, and reads the lines of text again. How can he be so flippant? How can he act as if this whole relationship meant nothing? Yes, it has only been three dates, but he seemed as eager to be with her as she had been to be with him.

That, of course, is the key phrase: _seemed_ to be. Jim wasn't in it to be with her, he was just using her to get close to Sherlock. She tries to be kind, to attribute it to his shy nature and social ineptness, but every excuse falls flat and she quickly gives up trying.

Her hands are shaking even harder as she sends a third message, this time to Mike Stamford, telling him she's ill and leaving early. Then she grabs her things, wipes her face and ducks out, thankfully without running into anyone she knows well on her way out.

One day she'll get this dating thing right. Just because she's 31 years old and has yet to figure it out doesn't mean she never will.


End file.
